


The Case of the Naked Consulting Detective

by ellie_hell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Slash, Soap bubbles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-12
Updated: 2011-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:29:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellie_hell/pseuds/ellie_hell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, John comes home to find Sherlock blowing bubbles on their bed. Naked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Naked Consulting Detective

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by [this video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ImmHGiSDqc&feature=related) of Benedict Cumberbatch blowing bubbles in a deleted scene from The Last Enemy, which is where I ~~stole~~ borrowed the 'bubble speech' from. 
> 
> Thanks for my fantastic team of betas, [](http://kim47.livejournal.com/profile)[ **kim47**](http://kim47.livejournal.com/)  and [](http://mygoldenbuttons.livejournal.com/profile)[ **mygoldenbuttons**](http://mygoldenbuttons.livejournal.com/)  who were kind enough to help me with this story. Their help was very precious and they both made the story so much better.  
> 

John had had a long day at the surgery, the endless string of patients blurring in his mind until he could hardly distinguish the old man with the sniffles from the toddler with the sniffles. Sherlock hadn’t texted him at all during the day, which was unusual. However, it had made John realise how much he appreciated feeling the buzzing of his phone against his thigh. Not because the vibrations were arousing, of course not, he wasn’t fourteen anymore. What John really liked was knowing Sherlock was thinking about him and every time he felt his phone vibrate against his leg, he imagined Sherlock’s deep voice whispering “I miss you, come home” directly into his ear.

It had only been three months since John had kissed his brilliant flatmate for the first time and while their relationship wasn’t the kind of romance that found its way to the cinemas, it felt amazing and magnificent to him. His life hadn’t changed that much in the last three months; he and Sherlock still chased after criminals, argued about what should and shouldn’t be stored in a refrigerator, enjoyed domestic mornings in pyjamas and drove each other completely crazy. Yet he also felt as if his world had been turned upside down; they could still have conversations without uttering a single word, but their nonverbal vocabulary had expanded to include ways to express longing, fondness, desire, love, and want. There was also a lot more kissing on the sofa, groping in cabs, love bites barely hidden by shirt collars, and tender fingers being very, _very_ affectionate.

John smiled widely and sped up unconsciously, eager to get home. It was a special day; after three months of sleeping together almost every night, they had decided to officially move Sherlock’s things into John’s room. Sherlock’s bedroom, the room directly over Mrs Hudson’s, would be used for experiments, because said experiments were never as loud as Sherlock having an orgasm. Their plans for the evening were to move most of Sherlock’s stuff into their shared bedroom, have a quiet night in with takeaway and, if John was lucky, a private violin concert followed by we’re-officially-sharing-a-room sex. If John was very lucky, that would be followed by we’ve-just-had-sex sex.

Just thinking about it made John’s steps extra bouncy when he climbed the seventeen stairs leading up to their home. He was greeted by an empty living room, which was surprising; Sherlock was never far away when he knew John was about to return from work and he didn’t have a case. Despite the silence and the obvious lack of consulting detective in the kitchen and living room, John knew he wasn’t alone in the flat – he had lived with Sherlock long enough to be familiar with his observation methods.

“Sherlock?” he called.

“In our bedroom.”

The unmistakable deep voice had come from upstairs and John smiled at Sherlock’s use of the words ‘our bedroom’. He hurried upstairs, thinking Sherlock had started moving his things without him, but he stopped abruptly when he reached the bedroom door.

The place was a mess.

Many things were scattered across the room, all coming from the boxes Harry had sent over several months before. There were pictures of himself, from his childhood to his days in the army, pictures with his family, with friends, posing for the camera or completely unaware he was being photographed. There were also toys, clothes and various memorabilia he had accumulated over the years. It looked as if his whole life had been shaken and spread on the floor. Instead of moving his own stuff in, Sherlock had taken John’s boxes out of the wardrobe, their contents examined before being put down. The bedroom was a mess; it looked even worse than what he imagined the inside of Sherlock’s head looked like.

Yet, despite the chaos, Sherlock still managed to be the most surprising thing in the bedroom. He was lying on the bed, naked as the day he was born, which was good; John loved coming home to a surprisingly naked Sherlock. However, that scenario usually didn’t involve bubbles. Yes, bubbles. Sherlock Holmes, the man who had deleted the solar system from his memory, the man who fought against the trivial knowledge John showered him with daily, was now the man holding a bright green bottle of soapy water and blowing bubbles out of a purple wand.

John had seen Sherlock doing many strange things since they had moved in together and this was far from the strangest one. Yet he couldn’t stop staring at the brilliant, naked man on their bed and at the pale skin that looked particularly delicious under the soft sunlight coming in through the window. John’s eyes halted for a while to stare at Sherlock’s flaccid cock resting in a well-groomed nest of dark pubic hair and he couldn’t help feeling relieved; whatever Sherlock was doing, it was comforting to see he wasn’t enjoying it that much.

“What are you doing?” John asked, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s body.

“Blowing bubbles,” Sherlock answered matter-of-factly.

John rolled his eyes; for someone who despised people stating the obvious, Sherlock was doing it quite skilfully. From his position in the doorway, John continued to look at his flatmate, friend, and lover. Sherlock was resting on three pillows, the angle creasing his stomach, but only slightly. He was holding the soap bottle in his left hand and was using the right one to immerse the purple ring into the liquid. When he brought the wand up and delicately blew one large single bubble, his mouth formed a heart so beautifully shaped it wouldn’t have been out of place on a Valentine’s Day card. It was a sight that never failed to make John’s heart rate speed up and his mouth water a little. Intrigued, he moved closer and sat on the bed.

“Yes, I can see you’re blowing bubbles,” John said as one flew close to where he was sitting. He popped it with his left index finger.

“What I should’ve asked is, why?” he added.

“I found this in one of the boxes Harry sent over after you moved in,” Sherlock explained, gesturing towards a toppled cardboard box that had, at some point, contained various memorabilia from John’s childhood that were now scattered around the box.

“Reminded you of your childhood?” John asked, smiling fondly.

“No, I’ve never done this before,” Sherlock answered before blowing two more bubbles in John’s direction.

John should have been used to it by now, but he couldn’t help it; every time he learned more about Sherlock’s childhood, he wanted to wrap his arms around the man’s slim torso and hug him tightly. Not that Sherlock had been unhappy growing up, but there had been too much science and not enough skinned knees, sweets, and silliness. John scooted closer until he could rest one of his hands on Sherlock’s knee and he stroked the pale skin with his thumb. Sherlock hummed in approval, but he didn’t stop blowing bubbles in John’s direction; bubbles that John chased with his other hand until they popped and splashed Sherlock’s naked body with tiny soap droplets.

“They’re fascinating,” Sherlock said as he followed the trajectory of a small bubble with his eyes.

“They are?” John asked.

He had loved blowing bubbles as a child, he and Harry had taken turns blowing and chasing them, and he had loved doing both. However, he had never stopped to think about how fascinating they were. Apparently, he was about to. Sherlock patted the bed beside where he was lying and John didn’t need to be asked twice, he stretched beside his naked lover and grabbed the bright green bottle he was being handed. Sherlock wrapped one of his arms around John’s shoulders and continued to blow bubbles. Meanwhile, John continued to be fascinated by the different shapes Sherlock’s mouth was making. He didn’t stay distracted for long though, Sherlock poking him with the wand to get his attention.

“No two bubbles are the same,” Sherlock said before blowing on the ring with more force, making a dozen bubbles of different sizes.

“The colours are caused by the interference of internally and externally reflected light waves, and are influenced by the thickness of the bubble.”

John really wanted to be attentive to what Sherlock was saying because Sherlock often said interesting and beautiful things. He would’ve probably been able to concentrate if Sherlock hadn’t been so gloriously naked. So instead of listening, he buried his face in Sherlock’s neck, feeling the dark curls tickling his cheek as he started kissing and licking every single parcel of skin he could reach.

“One could think their colours come from the same phenomenon as rainbows, but they don’t. It’s actually the same thing that causes coloration in oil slicks on wet roads. John, are you paying attention?”

“Mmm of course I am,” John answered from the crook of Sherlock’s neck.

He continued exploring Sherlock’s skin with his mouth while Sherlock continued to blow one stream of bubble after the other. John could feel one of Sherlock’s hands distractedly stroking his back, but his attention was obviously on the bubbles floating above them, their colours changing depending on how the sunlight coming from the window hit them. John snuggled closer, but managed to keep an eye on Sherlock’s body, smiling every time a new droplet hit his naked skin.

“They share the same mathematical properties and the angles always add up to the same; 120° when the bubbles form by three sides meeting on a curve. Near 109° when the bubbles form by four curves meeting at a point. That’s why they’re so beautiful; infinitely unique—”

“You’re beautiful,” John whispered into Sherlock’s ear before sitting up.

He straddled Sherlock’s thighs, grabbed the purple wand, plunged the ring into the soapy water and brought it up until it almost touched his lips. Then he blew on it and watched as several bubbles flew over Sherlock’s naked form. Sherlock watched them as they popped one by one and he stretched languidly, invitingly. John directed the next stream of bubbles at Sherlock’s chest and stared in amazement when the soap droplets glistened on the pale skin, almost alive under the sunlight.

John chased the droplets with one finger, leaving long wet trails on Sherlock’s skin. Then he plunged a finger into the soapy water and rubbed it on one of Sherlock’s pink nipples, smiling when he closed his eyes and parted his lips to let a small, content sigh escape. When Sherlock was just beginning to writhe under him, John switched to the other nipple, the one he knew was more sensitive. Sherlock arched his back to seek more friction, but John let go to take up the purple ring again and he blew several bubbles at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled a little when he felt the bubbles pop upon touching his skin. Small droplets stuck to his eyelashes and he blinked them away while John continued to stare at him with fond eyes.

Sherlock was half-hard and his breathing was shallower as he watched John attentively. John never tired of being the focal point of those wide eyes, especially when they twinkled with curiosity and interest, just as they were doing at the moment. Very slowly and without breaking eye contact, John angled the blower so he could send a stream of bubbles flying at Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock threw his head back and shivered when the bubbles popped upon touching his eager skin; the sight was so enticing John repeated the gesture, smiling. When more bubbles brushed against his hardening flesh, Sherlock’s mouth fell open and his hips sprang upwards, seeking a friction he couldn’t get.

John loved watching Sherlock. Not only when he was naked, pliant, and begging to be touched, but always. There was always something fascinating about Sherlock no matter what he was doing, although John was quite fond of his naked and pliant state, of which he was presently getting an eyeful. Thinking about Sherlock naked made him think about…well, it made him think about Sherlock naked, but mostly about the reason behind the absence of clothes.

“Sherlock, why are you naked?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, the expression he always wore when John asked a question he thought was particularly stupid.

“I know you’re not the most observant person in the room, but I thought it was obvious our current activities were leading to sex. Which, in a bedroom, usually works better if both parties are naked. Speaking of which…” he said as he grabbed the bottle of soapy water from John’s hand and tugged at his jumper, urging him to take it off.

John pulled his jumper over his head and threw it onto the floor, but he didn’t remove any more clothes.

“It’s not what I meant. Why were you naked when I came in?”

“Oh,” was Sherlock’s only answer and he looked away from John to watch as two bubbles collided and travelled together for a little while.

“What were you doing before I came back from work?” John asked, his smile wide and his eyes twinkling with mischief as he watched Sherlock squirm under him.

“I was looking through your boxes,” Sherlock said and he started unbuttoning John’s shirt with one hand, the other one still holding the brightly coloured bottle in which he had plunged the purple wand.

“I had already deduced that,” John said as he let his shirt slide down his arms and onto the floor where it got lost in the mess of souvenirs and boxes.

“I love it when you _deduce_ things.”

Sherlock shot John’s chest an approving look and blew a stream of bubbles in his direction. The bubbles hit John’s chest and neck, leaving tiny droplets sticking to his sparse chest hair. He felt tiny shivers running down his spine as Sherlock blew more bubbles his way and he closed his eyes, imagining the soapy orbs were Sherlock’s lips leaving butterfly kisses on his torso. It was very tempting to get rid of his trousers and press his naked groin against Sherlock’s, but that would be admitting defeat. If Sherlock was showing signs of embarrassment, John was determined to get to the bottom of it. It was time to put Sherlock’s methods to the test and, to put himself in the mood, John adopted Sherlock’s favourite thinking pose. Frowning slightly, he started observing. Really observing.

Sherlock was naked on a regular basis, but it was generally only for two reasons: either to shower or have sex. John leaned in until he could bury his face in Sherlock’s neck and he breathed in, but he could only very faintly detect the smell of his soap. Then, to avoid rejecting the shower hypothesis too quickly, he slid a hand under Sherlock’s head to stroke the soft curls at the nape of his neck: dry.

“You didn’t undress to shower,” he whispered in Sherlock’s right ear before capturing his earlobe between his lips and sucking gently.

Sex, then? It wasn’t unusual for Sherlock to strip and thoroughly prepare himself so John could come back from work and penetrate him right away, feeling the stress of the day seeping out of him as Sherlock’s lubricated hole contracted reflexively around him. To verify the sex hypothesis, he slid his left hand under Sherlock’s arse until he could gently stroke a finger against his hole: closed and dry.

“It wasn’t sex. At least, not yet,” John murmured and he groaned when Sherlock used the hand that wasn’t holding the soap bottle to grab his arse.

He sat up again and looked around the room. If neither a shower nor the prospect of sex had provoked Sherlock’s state of undress, there had to be an answer in the chaotic bedroom. Five boxes had been taken out of the wardrobe, all had been opened and their contents had obviously been examined before being discarded on the floor when Sherlock’s flickering attention had been caught by something else. There was a small space beside the wardrobe that was devoid of any picture or object, a space just large enough for a certain tall someone to sit cross-legged in.

“You were sitting right there,” John announced.

“Is that the best you can do?” Sherlock asked, obviously unimpressed by John’s deduction.

“Hang on, I’m not done,” John said, and the only response he got was a new wave of bubbles blown at his face.

Considering where Sherlock had sat, it wasn’t hard to figure out in what order he had opened and examined the boxes. The ones further away from the cupboard had been looked at first, having been pushed away as Sherlock had gone through more boxes. If something had triggered the need to undress, it had to be in the last box he had rummaged through. He looked over to the box closest to the wardrobe and saw that, at one point, it had contained memorabilia from his time in the army.

He hadn’t opened that box in a long time, but he remembered clearly what was in it. His dog tags, army gear, Dari and Pashto dictionaries, printed emails, and pictures. A quick scan of the room was enough for John to realise the letters and pictures were nowhere to be found. He felt blood tinting his cheeks as he thought about the content of the emails, the printed letters almost fading where the sheets of paper had been folded and unfolded repeatedly. Some men in Afghanistan had had porn and laptops, others had had dirty magazines, but John had relied on the emails he had exchanged with Bill Murray – his orderly, not the actor – when they had been too busy to spend some time together. The very descriptive emails filled with promises had made his blood boil on those lonely nights when the need to get off had made his whole body tingle. Had Sherlock read his correspondence? At the thought, John came up with a new hypothesis.

“Give me your hand,” he ordered and Sherlock extended his left hand for John to grab.

“The other hand,” John said and Sherlock tried to bite back a smile as he switched the green bottle from one hand to the other so he could offer his right hand.

John took hold of it and pressed it against his face so he could breathe in. His eyes never left Sherlock’s as he did so and it was obvious that his genius boyfriend had followed every single step of his thought process. John inhaled a few times and his eyes closed to concentrate on his sense of smell only. He opened his eyes and smiled victoriously when he detected what he was searching for: the musky scent he was very familiar with, a scent he loved to get drunk on, one he associated with very pleasant and very indecent things. A scent he had never associated with Sherlock’s hand, but with—

Letting go of the hand, John shuffled down until he was sitting on Sherlock’s tibias just below his knees. Then, without warning, he shoved his face in Sherlock’s crotch, feeling the thick curls tickling him as he buried his nose under Sherlock’s cock. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh of satisfaction as the aroma filled his nostrils. He rubbed his cheek against Sherlock’s cock a few times before sitting up again and moving back up to his previous position on Sherlock’s thighs. He laughed when Sherlock let out a protesting moan.

“Oh love, you’ve been _so_ naughty,” John said.

Sherlock didn’t answer, instead he tried to wriggle his hips to grind against John’s jean-clad groin, but the angle wasn’t favourable.

“You went through my boxes because you thought our sharing a room annulled the ‘my bedroom is off limits unless one of us is in danger’ clause of the flatmate agreement. The one you’ve been ignoring ever since I first mentioned it after our first month of cohabitation.”

“I respected that clause. Most of the time,” Sherlock replied breathlessly while trying to undo John’s belt.

“Mm, you did,” John agreed. “So you looked through my all my boxes, but you found something you liked in the last one, didn’t you?”

“Possibly.”

“You read my letters and they made you horny, but I wasn’t there so you had to rely on the…available resources,” John said before grabbing Sherlock’s hand and bringing it up to his mouth to lick a wet trail across the palm. Then, because he felt generous – and because his trousers felt increasingly tight – he unbuttoned his jeans so Sherlock could slide a hand inside, which he did as quickly as he could.

“But you didn’t come. I know because I couldn’t smell semen on you and you wouldn’t have gotten hard so quickly if you had achieved an orgasm already. It means you got distracted, but by what?” he asked, his voice becoming more hoarse as Sherlock stroked him faster and with more intent.

“Tell me John, tell me what happened,” Sherlock begged, his voice almost a purr and the soap bottle utterly forgotten on the bed beside him.

John’s eyes darted across the bedroom and he spotted Sherlock’s clothes on the desk close to the wardrobe. It was getting harder to think, almost impossible to concentrate. He closed his eyes to focus on what could’ve happened and when the realisation hit him, he felt himself hardening even further, the satisfaction of being right and the pleasure Sherlock was providing indistinguishable in his foggy mind.

“You undressed over there and you toppled that box when you got on the bed. The soap bottle rolled onto the floor and your curiosity won over your libido. You started blowing bubbles and eventually forgot all about what you were doing until I came back and caught you in the act,” John said very quickly and, when he was done, he let his head fall back.

“Did I get anything wrong?” he panted.

“The letters. I couldn’t read them; I hate thinking of you with someone else,” Sherlock answered and he paused for a moment.

“It was the pictures,” he added.

“Pictures!” John hissed and, looking down to the side of the bed, he saw a large stack of pictures that had fallen on the floor, probably when Sherlock had started blowing bubbles.

The first picture of the scattered pile showed him shirtless and lacing one of his heavy boots, and he knew the rest of the pile well enough to know what had turned Sherlock on. It was something they would have to explore and, later, John would insist they look at the pictures together, but now was not the time. Now was the time for John to take his trousers off and slide between Sherlock’s legs to kiss him until they each forgot how to breathe without the other.

They slept in Sherlock’s bedroom that night; neither was too keen on spending the night in sheets soaked with soapy water.  


  


End file.
